


Playing Hooky

by were_duck



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Gym Class Heroes
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Community: no_tags, Companionable Snark, F/M, rough genital play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_duck/pseuds/were_duck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For no_tags 2013, filling the prompt: Travie/Vicky-T - Travie leaves marks when he goes down</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Hooky

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to anoneknewmoose for cheerleading and reflectedeve for beta and handholding!

Their secret hooky nights started years back, at one of Pete's baby bands' record release parties or what the fuck ever. It began when Victoria caught Travie rolling his eyes right when she did. They'd shared a tolerant smirk across the booth at Angels & Kings while Gabe and Pete regaled the latest hotshot kids with tales of Warped tours of ages past.

Bored with the conversation, she started making dumb faces at him, and without missing a beat he'd flicked an ice cube into her cleavage.

He'd sidled up to her after his DJ set and said "You wanna...?"

And she'd surprised herself a little, leaning in to breathe his pot-and-sweat-and-light-cologne scent. They'd hung out at parties on tour but she'd never really considered... this. Him. There's something about the wickedly sweet smile he's wearing, and the way he's politely brushed everyone else off tonight, that makes her arch her eyebrow at him and say, "Only if you take me to pie."

"Challenge accepted, baby," he said, crooking his elbow like a gentleman in an Austen movie.

They'd made out like teenagers in the cab on the way to his favorite late-night club, his stoner giggles so infectious that she got a cramp from laughing so much. They'd danced until her dress stuck to her all over, and he licked the sweat up her neck, making her shudder on the over-crowded dance floor. She dug her fingernails into the skin of his hips, just to feel his breath hitch against her neck.

She ended up having to drag him to the all-night diner, making him fork tepid apple pie into her mouth while he hovered over his mug of shitty diner coffee like it was a life preserver. He was so different at 4:30 am, quiet and wry and self-possessed, without the jokey bravado he so often wore like a uniform around the boys. She took him home and put him in her bed, too tired to fuck, too wired to sleep, and just curled around his sweaty hoodie and jeans and listening to his stream of consciousness words turned to snores, until the sun trickled in the windows of the room.

It has become a thing. A thing she loves doing in spite of the inconvenience of international tour schedules and frustrations of carving time out of two busy public schedules. She loves her band, but she also loves the excitement of fucking off without them, of having someone to share stolen moments and stupid dares and who matches her insult for insult in public, but will engage her in existential rambles about art and music and the meaning of it all in the glaring fluorescent of her favorite 24-hour diner's corner booth.

Which is how Victoria finds herself stumbling out of bed and into the silver dress and matching heels that give her blisters, Gizmo growling in irritation, the constant stream of texts glowing intermittently on her phone the only light in the 1am gloom of her room. She pulls on pantyhose, hoping these aren't the ones with the run, and mashes the intercom with her thumb.

"One in the morning? You are such an _asshole_ ," she announces, pulling him in for a bleary hug at her door. He smells, as always, of pot and sweat, which would be gross if she weren't stockholmed by touring into thinking it's comforting.

"Good morning, gorgeous. What'd you do, skin a robot?" he says, fingering the stiff material of her dress.

"Oh my god, I wouldn't put it past Betsey to work robot-skinning into her process. Where are we going and tell me it's worth the caffeine IV I'll need for our shoot in the morning."

"You know, last time I was in the city you said 'anytime day or night, Travie, just text and I'm there'," Travie says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I take a savvy, pretty lady at her word when opportunity knocks, and, girl, those are some knockers." He leers, running one tattooed finger along her collarbone.

"Oh, suck my cock, Travie," she growls. She heaves an obnoxious sigh for his benefit to show the girls off a little more.

"Gladly, baby," he smirks, fingers tucking into the tulle of her underskirt. "Is now good for you?" She starts to laugh, but the giggle catches in her throat at the frank look he's giving her.

Victoria grabs his chin, stroking his lower lip with her thumb. She leans in to rub her cheek on the stubble of his jaw. "I'll give you fifteen minutes," she whispers, her mouth going dry. She fumbles for her phone, pulling up the alarm app. "If you haven't gotten me off by then, I'm hailing a cab and going dancing by myself. Don't fuck up my pantyhose."

He doesn't miss a beat, just grabs her by the hips and twists her up against the door so she has to wrap her legs around him for balance. "Challenge accepted," he murmurs, sucking her fingers into his mouth and doing something filthy with his tongue to the tips.

He's all over her, all six-and-a-half gorgeous feet of him, and she can't help the little moan that escapes when his fingers dig into her hips.

"Ohhh, you like that, huh?" he says, shifting her against the door to grab two handfuls of her ass, fingertips curved inward and taut in a way she hopes might leave bruises. It hurts, and it's uncomfortable, and it's making her really fucking turned on. She'd set him a dare she knew he could win, but now she's wondering if she could have gone for ten minutes.

She hisses in a laugh and drops one of her feet to the floor. "You're off to a good start, Trav, but you're gonna have to step it up if you want to make that taxi."

He huffs and sets her down, then drops to his knees so quickly he winces. "Gotta learn to wear kneepads when I come over here," he jokes ruefully, and when he meets her gaze she's struck again by how beautiful he is, long-lidded eyes and a wry mouth and art scrawled all over his skin.

He slips his hands up under her skirt, then digs in again even harder through the thin fabric of her tights. She gasps a little as he claws her with the ragged edges of his fingernails. Yes, definitely bruises, though from the scraping noise she just heard, the tights are probably a lost cause. She can't bring herself to care right now.

He grins cheekily up at her from the floor. "I think I'm onto something here." She rolls her hips encouragingly, and he bends to rub his cheek up the inside of her thigh. The pantyhose drags and catches against his stubble in a way that makes her squirm a little impatiently.

She isn't quite expecting it when he bites down hard on the inner muscle of her thigh, and he lets go immediately at her flinch. "No, come back!" she squeaks, gasping at the quick spike of adrenaline. "Don't fucking stop, fucking _ow_!" She grabs his head and pulls him back, groaning as he sets his teeth back over the spot. He chuckles into her as she starts swearing, and she can feel it vibrate through his teeth and into her body.

The pain is shocking, surprising her with how good it feels. He responds to her insistent hands clutching his skull, going for it with a typically Travie kind of curiosity and gusto, varying the sensations with quick sharp nips and long, sucking bites. At one point he starts to saw his jaw back and forth, worrying at her flesh in a way that grinds the tights deliciously across her skin, and she thinks she's probably going to die the most amazing death ever.

Her thighs are completely soaked now, and she's moving her hips in mindless little jerks as she leans into his teeth, until finally-- _finally_ \--he fits his mouth over her cunt and presses his tongue up into her through the pantyhose. 

"Can you come like this, baby? Do you want me to..." he asks, indistinctly. He's paused, breathing up into her with maddening stillness until she moans "God, Travie, yes, just more, I need..."

And then the genius motherfucker gets his hands involved, rubbing at her clit with broad swipes of his thumb while he grabs her lips and bites down with a little self-satisfied growl.

"Oh my _god_ ," she groans, not even caring that she's completely losing it. His teeth are blessedly blunt through the fabric, but he's not being timid with the force of his bite. "Fuck, Travie, that's... no don't let go, oh my _fuck_ ," she's down to broken meaningless phrases, his teeth bringing her roaring to the edge.

When she comes, she clamps her thighs hard around him, shuddering into him and moaning a little at the endorphins as her fresh bitemarks press into his braids.

It takes her a minute to realize the alarm she'd set has been beeping insistently, probably for a while, and she flails for her phone to stab at it until it shuts the hell up.

He tumbles out from under her and catches her in his arms as she sinks blissfully to the floor. Her dress is mashed and covered in dust bunnies, and her hose are a complete disaster, but... "That was pretty incredible," she has to admit, grinning dopily up at him. He smells like her, sweet and a little bitter, and she isn't surprised to feel his hard-on tucked up against her ribcage. She curls into his lap, snuggly and relaxed in the wake of her orgasm. He rubs a thumb down her thigh and huffs a little laugh.

"You didn't make the cut-off," she observes, poking him in the ankle. His pant leg is riding up and she's idly tracing the lines of his tattoo with her fingernail. "You lost the bet."

"Don't I get points for quality? Ingenuity?" he says, affronted. The thumb rubbing her thigh creeps down and digs deliciously into the biggest bite mark he left, and she can't help the little appreciative gasp.

She purses her lips in mock seriousness, twisting to look up at him. "Well. I guess you can have points for beauty, at least. You can come with, but you're buying me a drink. A _fancy_ one. With umbrellas and a whole fruit salad hanging off the rim."

He chuckles and dumps her off his lap, then helps her to her feet. She sways a little, brushing her dress, then grabs her clutch and opens the door, swirling her keys around her index finger. "Ready?"

He gives her a look of total betrayal, then makes an exaggerated adjustment of his raging hard-on. "Okay, V, you're the boss. Fucking hell," he laughs, barrelling down the stairs like a ten-year-old.

Later, much later, when they're exhausted from dancing and they stumble back in, he helps her rip the tattered hose off and they sprawl over her bed. Gizmo grumpily resettles himself above her pillow before returning to his tiny fitful doggie dreams.

They take inventory of her bruises. Travie's fingers are gentle as they trace the outlines, poke and press. She's fascinated by them, by him, by the warm single-minded focus that comes out in moments like these, when he's totally committing to his art.

She'll reach for him soon, once she's done taking him in. For days after this, she'll remember all of it whenever she presses her fingers into these bruises. It'll come to her in bright flashes of somatic memory: his teeth on her thigh, the door crushed against her back, the hum of his laughter against her skin, his eyelashes brushing her skin as he bends to kiss them one by one as he's doing now. She smiles to herself, and pulls him down.


End file.
